


The Adventure Of Hereward's Dagger (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [62]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Male Character, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Theft, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 00:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Fen Country is the scene of a cursed dagger that has been stolen. Can Sherlock both get it back and deal with the thief?





	The Adventure Of Hereward's Dagger (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sabris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabris/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the Grice-Pattersons on the Isle of Uffa'.

Foreword: In the year following this case, there was passed the Local Government Act (effective 1889), which amongst may changes 'tidied up' most of the exclaves and enclaves around the borders of England's counties. Partly because of that, the term 'exclave' has since largely fallen from favour. The difference is that an enclave is wholly surrounded by only one other administration (for example, Dudley in Worcestershire, whose borough is totally surrounded by the county of Staffordshire), whilst the Isle of Uffa was an exclave because it was bordered by two other areas (Lincolnshire (Holland) to the north and the Soke of Peterborough to the south.

+~+~+

I remember one of the few times that Sherlock ever met my annoyingly tall little brother Sammy, and the Moose made a point of telling him about his brother's Legendary Emotional Constipation. Sherlock had reprimanded him quite sharply for speaking of his best friend in that manner, and Sammy had of course whipped out the fabled puppy-dog eyes, which he used on me far too often to get me to do whatever he asked. They never failed.

Until now. Sherlock had merely asked him if he needed the bathroom, and I recall that Sammy had stormed off in a huff. I had been too busy laughing to be one hundred per cent sure.

+~+~+

As has been noted by many of my readers, Sherlock took a lot of cases in London, and did not particularly enjoy venturing out into the English countryside. He did it if necessary, but he much preferred our capital, for some reason. Howsoever, this particular case started with good reason for him to, at least temporarily, part from his beloved Great Wen.

“Henriksen has a rather unusual case of theft in Huntingdonshire”, he told me one day as he sat there sucking at that ridiculous pipe. At least he had put the violin away; I had scowled at Betty, our maid, when she had delivered afternoon tea with cotton-wool stuffed in her ears, smirking far too loudly for my liking. Sherlock's playing was tolerable most times, but when he got moody and played one of his sad pieces, it went right through me. We should all have had to suffer that experience equally!

“Odd?” I asked. “How, pray?”

“An old police friend of his, a Mr. Lancelot Quinn, has retired to close by the area where it happened”, Sherlock said. “Normally the local constable would deal with a case of theft, but this is.... different.”

“Different”, I echoed.

“Rather unusual”, he said. “By the by, the other reason for Henriksen's visit was that someone came to his station asking for me. A certain Mrs. Margaret Masters.”

I groaned inwardly. 

“She is still around?” I muttered. “Like a bad smell.”

He smiled.

“Henriksen will be visiting in about an hour to tell us more”, he said. “I presume that he has some link to the case which makes his own involvement undesirable. And I am sure that the fact it is Mrs. Harvelle's coffee-cake day today is neither here nor there!”

I snorted in disbelief. Even I could 'detect' the abject lack of truth in that statement!

+~+~+

“I know I do not have to remind you gentlemen that my old friend would get into trouble if it ever emerged that he had told me about the case”, Henriksen said later, definitely not slavering over a large slice of cake. “But he thought, and I agreed, that it is just plain weird.”

“Go on”, Sherlock said.

“Have either of you ever heard of the Isle of Uffa?”

We both shook our heads.

“It is an exclave of Huntingdonshire, just south of Lincolnshire”, he said. “No railway station, and my friend says they're still a world apart, even in this modern age. The 'isle' is just a few miles across and up, and only has one fair-sized village in it, Fenchurch Magna. Rivers and drains surround it, and the only way on or off is either by the single bridge or by boat. The squire is one Mr. Merioneth Fforbes; merry by name but not by nature. The place reeks of history, and was once a hideout for the famous Hereward the Wake, after 1066.”

“An ancient place”, I said. Henriksen nodded.

“Fforbes owned a bejewelled hunting dagger, which was said to go all the way back to Hereward himself”, he said. “I doubt the truth of that – it is a bit like every hotel that says 'Queen Elizabeth slept here' - but it was worth a pretty penny, regardless. It was kept on display at Hereward House, and my friend Quinn said that when he saw it, it sure looked old. Then this Wednesday just gone, it was stolen.”

“Why was it not in the newspapers?” I asked.

“Because Fforbes was almost sure that it had not left the area”, Henriksen said. “The house was being visited by a party of four guests, one of whom had expressed some interest in purchasing the item. If you were to take an interest in the case, I am sure Quinn would be grateful; I know he reads the doctor's articles. And”, he added with a mischievous grin, “it would get you out of the clutches of Mrs. Masters and her simpers!”

Sherlock looked at me.

“A summer break in the Fens”, he said lightly. “Watson, can you take a few days off work?”

“Luckily, I am still owed for all the extra hours that I worked in winter”, I said. “I will ask when I go in today, and if they agree, hopefully we can go tomorrow.”

Before the wicked witch sweeps in on her broomstick, I added silently.

Someone's smirk. Still annoying.

+~+~+

Twenty-four thankfully harridan-less hours later, we were on a Great Northern Railway train out of King's Cross, headed for the town of Peterborough. There we would take a slow train to Fenchurch Road Halt (I was always suspicious of any station with a title like that, after I had read that the original 'Andover Road Station' was in fact some ten miles from the town that it purported to serve), and Henriksen's friend Mr. Quinn would meet us there and take us to Fenchurch Magna.

After a tolerable journey of a couple of hours duration, we reached our destination, a small halt in a tiny hamlet called Kirton-in-the-Marsh, and duly found the retired policeman waiting for us. The man was, I thought, surprisingly fit for someone in his sixties, and as bald as Henriksen. I thought of our recent case with the be... mendicants, and smiled; at least the sunlight glinting off Mr. Quinn's dome was a better sight than Lord Joseph's 'rug'! I felt instinctively towards my own thatch, which mercifully showed no signs of thinning. As yet. 

Of course somebody had to choose that moment to turn and give me a knowing look. I just could not catch a break!

“I was Victor's boss during his time in New York”, our host explained, and I could detect the American accent at once. “When he married Valerie and decided to come to England, I was about to retire, and chose to follow him.”

“Why the Fens?” Sherlock asked. “The United States is a wonderful young country, but I suspect that most of its citizens think that England starts and ends with London.”

“Valerie's sister Eunice married a Fenchurch man, a Mr. Josiah Netley, and they lived here”, he explained. “I came for a visit one time, and I just fell in love with the place. It's very parochial, but it's like living in a time capsule.”

“Have you told Mr. Fforbes about your bringing us in on the case?” Sherlock asked.

“I did”, Mr. Quinn admitted, almost reluctantly, “and he demanded to see you the moment that you arrived. And bearing in mind how the Isle is, I am sure that he will hear of your advent probably before you reach Fenchurch itself!”

I nodded, though I wished that he would have waited, as it was impossible to take notes in a moving vehicle. He noted my discomfiture and smiled.

“My notes as to what I have found so far are at your disposal, doctor”, he re-assured me. “Though the case itself is beyond me. I should begin, perhaps, by explaining the peculiar situation here, and why I am involved in the first place.”

He sighed.

“The Isle of Uffa is administratively part of Huntingdonshire, though it is detached from the rest of that county”, he began. “It is also subject to certain arcane laws, which lead the county constabulary to tread warily around Mr. Fforbes. In truth one of their constables should be investigating this case, but the last time they came to Fenchurch to investigate a crime, their heavy-handed approach upset several of the locals, and a lot of bad feeling resulted. When I offered to look into this matter, both the chief constable and Mr. Fforbes agreed that it might be for the best.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “We must tread softly, then.”

“Indeed”, Mr. Quinn said. “Anyway, to the crime, which is the theft of the famous Hereward Dagger. On Monday of this week, Mr. Fforbes was telegraphed by his financial adviser in London that there was a business opportunity which required his signature within forty-eight hours. He left early on Tuesday to go up to London; and did what needed to be done. He intended to be away for three days and to visit his property manager in the city on the Wednesday, but the guy was almost immediately called away by a family bereavement, so they brought their dealings to a speedy conclusion and Mr. Fforbes returned home in the early afternoon of Wednesday the twenty-ninth, a day earlier than planned. In his absence the estate was run by his eldest son Peter Fforbes, a bright young fellow who by all accounts gets on well with his father. He is eighteen, and planning to go to university at Oxford.”

“Why not Cambridge?” I asked. “It is a lot closer.”

“I wondered at that”, Mr. Quinn said, “and he said that he wanted the experience of living away from home for the first time. Cambridge would have meant a fairly easy commute from Fenchurch, even if roads in and around the Isle are poor.”

I could vouch for that. What with all the bumps and ruts in the 'road', this was not far short of my recent and unhappy sea-crossing of Cork Harbour.

“I should have mentioned that he was expecting his guests on Wednesday, all of whom were staying until the weekend”, he went on. “His son insisted however that he could entertain them in his father's brief absence, rather than cancelling or postponing them all. By the time Mr. Fforbes returned, all the guests had indeed arrived, and his son had taken one of them to Cambridge for the day, to look round the colleges, I suppose. Naturally the first thing the squire did on his return was to go into the gallery to check the Hereward Dagger, only to find that it had gone!”

“Dramatis personae?” Sherlock asked.

“Four, apart from Mr. Fforbes and his son. He has a second son and a daughter, but both are away at boarding school. Mr. Edmund Grice-Patterson, Member of Parliament for Huntingdonshire and whose constituency includes Uffa, and is an old friend of his. He is forty-six, a Conservative, and I suppose no more or less corrupt than most of the rapscallions at Westminster. Then there are his son Thomas, and his daughter Alice. Thomas is twenty, and went to the same school as young Fforbes, to whom he is a close friend; he will share with him when they go to Oxford. His sister is nineteen and fervently into women's suffrage, much to the discomfiture of just about everyone around her as the idea of keeping her opinions to herself is not one that she seems capable of entertaining. Mr. Fforbes speaks of the desirability of her marrying Peter when he reaches twenty-one, but they appear to be just good friends.”

“And the fourth person?” I asked.

“That is where it gets interesting”, Mr. Quinn said, pushing his round spectacles up his stubby nose. “Mr. Rufus Sully, a jewellery expert whom Mr. Fforbes had agreed – reluctantly, I suspect – to allow to examine the dagger. Or would have done, had it not been taken. As I am sure you know, the general opinion of experts thus far, even though none have been allowed to examine the dagger closely, is that it is most probably medieval at best. I should also mention that Mr. Sully is quite rich, and it is he who has expressed an interest in purchasing the dagger. Though I am sure that Mr. Fforbes would rather sell the house first!”

“Intriguing!” Sherlock said. “Was there no security to protect this valuable antique?”

“Not in the conventional sense”, our host said. “It has been stolen twice before, but was returned on both occasions. I should probably have mentioned the Curse of the Hunted, which it is said was bestowed on the weapon by a local witch in Hereward's time. Should it ever leave the Isle or the family, something terrible will happen to the thief. You may look askance, gentlemen, but the last time it happened, the then-thief's two eldest sons both died – both stabbed in knife attacks within an hour of each other, and in different towns to boot! I will show you both around the gallery when we get there.”

“Insurance?” I ventured.

“Mr. Fforbes does not believe in it”, Mr. Quinn said. “In this case, perhaps I can understand. The item, whatever its provenance, is irreplaceable.”

“Could someone from outside have done it?” Sherlock asked.

“That is unlikely. The Isle is accessed only by a toll bridge, which we are coming up to, or a passenger ferry – which is really a row-boat operated out of the Bull's Eye tavern in Fenchurch Parva, which connects to Steepleton, in Lincolnshire. And the place is such that any stranger would be spotted immediately. Even in Fenchurch Magna, an incomer would stand out a mile, let alone in one of the other villages and hamlets.”

Our carriage rumbled to a halt as Mr. Quinn handed over a ha'penny to the clearly suspicious toll-collector, and we rumbled over the river and onto Uffa. I could see his point; even by the standards of this remote part of the country, the place seemed bereft of all human life. I could well imagine a Saxon renegade warrior hiding out here nearly a thousand years ago.

I caught Sherlock's amused expression, and blushed.

+~+~+

Fenchurch Magna may have been the largest place on Uffa, but it was still little more than a village, with just a few shops, a post office, a high street with a strange kink in its main road for some reason, and an oddly-proportioned if attractive large church.

“Parts of it are Saxon”, Mr. Quinn said, seeing me regarding it. “Perhaps if there is time, you can go and examine it more closely. We are coming up to Hereward Hall now.”

I looked at the approaching building, and was relieved to see that it looked early Georgian. The current fashion for Gothic architecture frankly made me uncomfortable, as I always felt that it looked out of place in England. A footman was awaiting our arrival, and spoke immediately to Mr. Quinn, who then turned to us.

“Mr. Fforbes does wish to see us immediately”, he said, almost apologetically.

“That is why we are here”, Sherlock said comfortingly. “Let us go and brave the storm!”

+~+~+

I have to say that I did not take well to Mr. Merioneth Fforbes. He seemed torn between dubiousness at Sherlock's abilities, and outright hostility to the idea that I might write up the case at some future date. It was a tribute to my friend's abilities to soothe even the most ruffled feathers that he soon persuaded the squire that nothing he undertook was ever published without the consent of those (innocent parties) involved, or at least their close kin. Though I still felt him regarding me suspiciously at dinner. I was strongly tempted to take out my notebook, just to see if that would provoke him!

The jewellery expert Mr. Sully was not at dinner, since he was dining at the vicarage after looking over some of the church's old possessions, but the three young people were. Miss Alice Grice-Patterson was every bit as formidable as Mr. Quinn had made out, and expounded her feelings on women's suffrage to both Sherlock and myself. Forcibly. Twice. I was a little surprised that this did not evince a reaction from Mr. Fforbes, but I later learnt from Mr. Quinn that the one time the two had clashed, she had got the better of the argument, and that their host had since held his fire. She would have made a good politician in another age, as she was inordinately fond of the sound of her own voice, and incapable of understanding the uniqueness of that opinion.

Miss Grice-Patterson seemed much more interested in her political views than in sharing anything more than a polite word with young Peter Fforbes, who spent much of the dinner talking quietly with her brother. The boys were physically very similar, and I thought privately that Peter Fforbes did not look like much of a future lord to me. Like his father, he and his friend also avoided engaging Miss Grice-Patterson on any political matters. The only difference between the boys, rather unfortunately, was that the squire's son was 'distinguished' by a most regrettable attempt at a moustache; either that, or something had crawled across his upper lip and promptly died there!

After dinner, the three young people went to the billiard-room, and Sherlock turned to our host.

“I think now might be a good time to visit the scene of the crime”, he said. “May we go to the gallery, please?”

Mr. Fforbes nodded, and led the way out of the dining-room, pausing only before unlocking the door to the gallery.

“Do you think that the dagger can be recovered?” he asked, his voice almost breaking.

“The fact that the curse has not been activated suggests that it has not yet left the island”, Sherlock observed. 

I was surprised; had not thought that he believed much in superstition. Possibly he was just being nice to our client.

Mr. Fforbes nodded, and led us into the gallery. The room itself was surprisingly well-lit, with a large central window overlooking the front of the estate. There were three glass cases in the centre of the room, two large and one small. The small middle case contained a very empty purple cushion. Sherlock walked up to it, and frowned.

“The glass was not broken?” he asked.

“It was”, our host admitted. “There was a lock fitted to the glass cover, you see.”

Sherlock nodded, and ran his fingers round the base of the cabinet.

“Who has access to the keys?” he asked.

“The cabinet and gallery keys are all on the main set, which I have with me at all times”, our host said.

“But you were away in London immediately prior to the theft”, Sherlock pointed out. “Did you leave the keys with your son?”

Mr. Fforbes' face reddened.

“I did”, he admitted, “but when I asked him, Peter admitted that he had left them downstairs for a time whilst he and Tom were studying in his room.”

Sherlock smiled. I knew that look. He was on to something.

“Is there a spare set?” he asked.

“Yes, but not together”, our host said. “Mrs. Parkes, the housekeeper, has keys to all the rooms but not the cabinets, whilst Arnulfson, my butler, has the cabinet keys but not the room one. Mrs. Parkes allows the maids in to dust, but she always locks up after they finish. And she always checks round after they are done; she assured me that after the last cleaning, the dagger was still there.”

“How old is this house?” Sherlock asked.

Our host gaped at the apparent _non sequitur_.

“Pardon?”

“In what year was the house built, Mr. Fforbes?” Sherlock asked patiently.

“Early sixteenth century, but it was partly destroyed in the Great Fire of 1741.”

“And is the gallery part of the old building?”

“Yes, but....”

“Has it always been a gallery?”

Our host seemed to make an effort to pull himself together.

“This used to be a family chapel here during Elizabethan times”, he said. “You will note that it affords an excellent view of the only access road, which given the religious differences of the time, was often useful.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock beamed. “I believe that we may be able to bring this case to a successful resolution, even if the good doctor will in all probability be unable to publish it for some time.”

He strode from the room, and I scuttled after him.

+~+~+

I woke from a pleasant dream in which I felt strangely happy for no particular reason, only to realize that I was not alone in my room. Groggily I squinted up into a familiar pair of blue eyes.

Sherlock was leaning right over me. What the....

“Come, doctor”, he smiled cheerily. “Breakfast is served!”

I squinted at my watch, then baulked. What was Sherlock doing up and alert at this time of morning? Did they serve coffee in bed, perhaps? Or was it indeed the apocalypse?

+~+~+

We sat down to a delicious breakfast – copious supplies of crispy bacon, which probably explained Sherlock being up – and we were joined by both Mr. Sully (a short, dark man whom I instinctively mistrusted) and Mr. Quinn. We were still eating when our host arrived. I could see at once that he was not in a good mood.

“What happened?” Mr. Quinn asked. Mr. Fforbes sank heavily into his chair.

“Someone took the Bull's boat”, he said morosely. “They've left the island!”

I saw at once the implications of what he had said. If someone had taken the dagger and hid on the island for a while, they had now gotten away. Finding them would surely be almost impossible. Our host took a coffee, but waved away food, looking totally dejected.

That was, until the end of the meal when a maid hurried into the room, curtsied to our host, then whispered something to him.

“What the hell?” he yelped, before shooting up and racing out of the room.

We all followed as quickly as we could, to the gallery where we found our host staring incredulously at the scene before him. There, in the centre of the room, was the small display cabinet with the purple cushion. And on the cushion was what was undeniably a small hunting-dagger.

Mr. Fforbes beckoned Mr. Sully forward, and the expert gently lifted the weapon and examined it thoroughly before replacing it gently onto the cushion. Then he nodded at our host. 

As if by magic, Arnulfson appeared next to his master holding a large glass of whisky, which Mr. Fforbes downed in one shot. Then he looked sharply at Sherlock.

“Can you explain this?” he demanded.

“I can certainly tell you how they got in and out”, he said.

“How?” our host demanded.

Sherlock walked over to a corner of the gallery, and pressed what looked like an ordinary-looking panel. Except when he did so, it slid back to reveal an opening.

“A priest-hole!” I gasped.

“Rather more”, my friend said. “Your ancestors, sir, were Catholics at a time when the country was turning Protestant, and they had a system of escape passages installed just in case. A particularly wise precaution, given the lack of egresses from this island. I am sure that this leads outside, sir, but would you care to notice that there are definite footprints both coming and going on the dusty floor? This is the means by which the thief gained access to the room. You will also notice how smoothly the mechanism operated, which indicates that it has been used recently.”

“But why did he return it?” Mr Fforbes demanded.

“Possibly the curse?” Sherlock said. “Maybe they ventured over the bridge or took the boat, something terrible happened, and they wisely chose to return and replace it. As to the identity of the thief – well, now it seems that they came from the outside world, it could have been anyone.”

I was sure I felt a slight gasp from someone in the group behind me, but I could not identify who it was.

“Well, I have my dagger back”, Mr. Fforbes said. “This calls for a celebration. Drinks, everyone.”

+~+~+

“You know who it was, do you not?” I said, as our carriage rolled away from Hereward Hall the following day. He nodded.

“An unconventional crime, in one sense”, he said. “The motives were certainly.... different. But I spoke to the thief – if I may call them such - and I am certain that the crime, such as it was, will not be repeated.”

“Mr. Sully?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Master Peter Fforbes”, he said. I stared at him in confusion.

“But why?” I demanded. “He will inherit it one day, anyway. Why would he take what is virtually his own property?”

“For the person he loved”, Sherlock smiled. “A foolish dare; if you love me enough, you will leave the island with me and the dagger.”

“Well, that can't be”, I said petulantly. “He told us he went into Cambridge with Thomas Grice-Patterson, not Alice.”

Sherlock looked at me knowingly, and I only slowly realized that he was willing me to get it. And I did.

“Oh. Oh!”

“Mr. Fforbes should have been more careful as to what he wished for”, Sherlock said wryly. “His son and heir is indeed in love, though not with the Grice-Patterson that he suspects. I only hope that they will be more discreet than when they were at dinner that night. Their pointedly moving apart from each other every time someone looked at them was one of the things that alerted me to that possibility.”

“But the priest-hole?”

“I spoke to the boys this morning”, Sherlock explained. “We went to the gallery; Peter Fforbes oiled the mechanism and then went into and out of the priest-hole a couple of times to give the impression that someone had used it. He was the obvious thief, after all.”

“How?” I asked.

“Remember that the glass was broken?” he said.

I nodded.

“I looked at the locks on the other two cabinets”, he said. “Even the most infantile thief could have cut away one of those locks easily, and lifted the glass off. But he had to smash the glass, otherwise suspicion might have fallen on the key-holder. That, coupled with the priest-hole, clearly implied that it was an outside job.”

“Clearly!” I said.

“The boys wish to go to Australia together, once Peter's brother William comes of age and can inherit the Hall”, Sherlock said. “And the curse of the dagger remains, which in this scientific age can only be for the good.”

“Young Mr. Fforbes aside, I could never publish this case”, I said ruefully.

“Perhaps some day, the world will be more accepting”, he said. “Let us hope that we shall both live to see it.”

+~+~+

Young Fforbes and his 'friend' did indeed decamp to Australia, whence they sent Sherlock a letter of thanks. The world did not change that much during our lifetimes after all. But, I think I may safely say, I had more than enough in the way of compensation.

+~+~+

Our next case would take us just across the Thames to Camberwell, where I would see the truth about that old adage that those who live by the sword so often die by it. And Sherlock would solve a case by winding a watch.....


End file.
